


Bedtime

by Tomstinkerbell



Category: Loki Fandom, Loki Laufeyson Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor movies
Genre: Embarrassment, F/M, Reluctant Pleasure, Sorta Dominant Loki, Sorta Non-Con But Not Really?, single mother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomstinkerbell/pseuds/Tomstinkerbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To her deep embarrassment, a poor widow has reluctantly found herself the object of Loki's affections, although her reticence isn't for the reason one might think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t know why I wrote this, just got to thinking about what if Loki kind of … imposed himself on a poor single mother, only she can’t really say that she doesn’t enjoy it and that makes her feel even more uncomfortable about what happens between them.
> 
> **Warning: the female protagonist isn't thrilled with Loki's attentions, so I suppose it could be considered a bit non-consensual, so that's why I chose to use the warning.
> 
> It’s really a relatively tame story, though.

I fight tentatively against the gentle but firm hold he has on my arm - just above the elbow - but not because I know he’s going to hurt me. The awful, humiliating, embarrassing truth is much worse than that, since just the opposite is true.

He’s standing there in the doorway to my bedroom, naked to the waist, tall and formidable, dark hair grazing broad shoulders, piercing green eyes narrowed to slits in warning at my audacity in not immediately complying with his unspoken request.

“Put her to bed,” he rumbles low and soft, but with no lessening of intent or intensity, “and then I will put you to bed.”

I can’t help but glance at Laura, my four year old daughter, who is quietly sitting at the small kitchen table of our even smaller home, made more so by his imposing presence within it, playing with her ancient rag doll. Unlike me, she loves him, although I’ll never know why, even though he isn’t particularly affectionate with her and expects quite a bit from her - more than I ever would have - in the way of good behavior when he’s … visiting me.

At the mention of bed, she runs up to him and takes his hands innocently, voluntarily, in away I never could - never would - adoration shining out of her eyes and up at him, not that he ever acknowledges it. "Will you put me to bed, please, Loki?“

“Not tonight, poppet. Go with your mother. She and I have some business to attend to.” His voice is hard and just shy of stern; he makes no accommodation in his demeanor for the fact that she’s a child, nickname not withstanding. It’s just something he’s heard me call her on other occasions like this one that are all too frequent for my comfort. 

He shakes her hands off, herding her towards me with a gentle shove, his eyes latching so hungrily on mine that I have to look away, guiding my daughter into her room and wondering baldly - as I always did when he appeared on our doorstep - just how long I could make her bedtime rituals last before he would come after me.

And, if it came to that, I know I will pay dearly, body and soul.

I can’t let that happen. If he comes to her room to drag me away, I know I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from actively resisting him, and, although she sleeps pretty heavily, I cannot risk Laura being any more of a witness to my struggles against him - and how he never fails to make me feel - than she has to be.

Despite my good intentions towards her, three bedtime stories are the norm, but I allow her five this evening, to her great delight, and snuggle with her under the covers afterwards until she’s dead asleep in my arms and I realize with no small amount of trepidation that I can delay the inevitable no longer.

Just as I’m going to extricate myself from her bed, the door swings silently open, and he is there, the glow of the firelight from behind him making him look even bigger and more menacing than he usually does.

He doesn’t come in, as if it would be beneath him to do so. He just stands there, one eyebrow raised at me imperiously, growling, “Come to me, woman, before I grow angry at your childish delays.”

Churlishly wishing I hadn’t been about to do as he asked, I slide from beneath the threadbare covers and tuck them in again, the way I know she likes, then move slowly towards him, caught between wanting to appear strong and confident and the reality of feeling small and powerless against him, as I inevitably am.

As he will undoubtedly make me, time and time again over the course of the very long night, during which I know there will be no sleep for either of us.

My small hand is captured by his as soon as he can reach it, as if he’s worried I’m going to change my mind, and I am forced to walk ahead of him - as if I am eager for what comes next - to the scene of my deep shame - my own bedroom.

And parts of me - the ones I refuse to think about the existence of any time except when he’s here, demanding what he does of me - most definitely are quite eager. They are the culprits who moistening my panties, tighten my nipples and make my heart beat uncontrollably as he closes the door behind us with a terrifying finality.


End file.
